


Rises Again

by snowsnake



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fix-It, Friends to Lovers, Joffrey Baratheon is His Own Warning, Sansa-centric, Slow Burn, Theon-centric, They're kids right now, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-03
Updated: 2019-07-03
Packaged: 2020-06-03 09:58:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19461625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snowsnake/pseuds/snowsnake
Summary: They were given another chance. She’d been torn apart by wights, left bloody and broken, while he’d taken a spear of ice through his chest while he struggled to protect the last chance of redemption he had. They both died, painfully and alone.Their fight was far from over, though. Sansa and Theon were both sent back to the beginning by the Drowned God himself, still bitter from their past while they tried to change their future.





	Rises Again

**SANSA**

When she heard the stone crack and crumble, the skeletal arms clawing their way from their graves, Sansa felt her heart drop. Women and children shrieked, and she shared a dark look with Tyrion. They wouldn't make it out of this crypt alive. 

She grabbed the dagger Arya had given her, sending a silent prayer up through the stone ceiling of this gravesite, into the sky to whoever might listen. Let the doors of the crypt stay shut, let their bodies rot down here. Do not force the men and women still living to fight their children, wives, brothers, and sisters. Do not make Jon kill her corpse, do not force Theon to put an arrow through her. He fingers were numb with fear as the screams grew to a crescendo, the sound of the wights snarling and hissing and _gnawing_. She moved around the edge of the statue, but Tyrion grabbed her arm. His eyes were urgent, mouth opening to speak, but Sansa shook her head and wrenched her arm from his grasp. She would not hide like a coward while her people suffered and died.

The first thing she saw was the blood; there was a river of it running through the crypts. Bodies were strewn around, young and old, torn apart and ripped to shreds. Jaws ripped from their sockets, eyes bleeding, skin ravaged with cuts and torn up so their faces and bodies were carved with claw marks. She didn't see much else before they were on her, and she was left to desperately slash at the undead that rushed towards her. They were fast, too fast, and Sansa was desperate. 

Children were screaming for their parents. 

_I hope I see father again,_ she thought as blood dripped from the wounds on her arms.

Mothers were sobbing over dead children before being silenced themselves.

_And mother and Robb...and Rickon, poor Rickon, I'm glad you're not alive to see this horror_ , she thought as one of their jaws clamped onto her shoulder, blunted teeth tearing at her flesh. 

She heard Tyrion screaming for her, begging her to run, but where could she run to?

_Theon...hopefully we'll meet again. If the Gods are real you'll be with us in the after, you've paid for your sins ten times over._ Her vision grew hazy and she felt those blunt teeth at her throat, at her arms, at her legs. They were tearing her apart.

All she could he was ringing silence now. Even her own screams had been stifled by the blood choking her throat.

_Jon, please..._

She was numb, cold, her dagger had long fallen from limp, stiff fingers. She felt the wights abandon her when she stopped moving and when her breath ceased. She expected death, expected the Stranger to come calling for her soul, but all she felt was the blood that poured from her lips as she coughed. She coughed and _coughed_ , but it was drowning her, filling her lungs and making her feel as if she had fallen beneath the waves of the far-away sea.

First, the cold came, the chill of death and the scent of iron and wetness of her own blood pooling around her. Then it was all gone.

* * *

**THEON**

He ran out of arrows some time ago, left with nothing but a spear. These weren't the carefully planned and executed moves he'd learned as a child held captive in Winterfell, these were desperate and careless. Slashing, stabbing, abrupt and sharp movement as he cut down the last wight that charged him. The rest were standing around the perimeter of the Godswood, standing still as the dead should be, waiting for something. 

The temperature dropped sharply, his sweat freezing on his body, forcing him to remember the time he crosses a frozen river for the woman he...loved. As the Night King closed in on them, as death came to take him, he admitted it, if only to himself. He loved Sansa Stark. He would've died for her, he still would without a second thought. As a boy he'd once dreamed of marrying her, becoming a real Stark. It was just a childish fancy then, not love, and now he certainly wasn't fit for her to marry. A traitor, not even a man...he would still serve her, though, in any way he could. He would fight for her, for her brother.

When he raised his own eyes to meet the blue ones of death, he found he wasn't afraid. He hadn't been afraid of death for a while now. An honorable end was the best he could hope for, after all. He gripped the spear in his hands tighter.

"Theon," He heard Bran call to him, finally a crack in that emotionless exterior he put on.

When he turned to look at the boy, by the Gods he truly was still just a boy, he saw fear in the boy's eyes. His face was still stoic, but his eyes were more expressive than any other part of him. It was that way for all the Starks he found as he grew up. Even trying to hide their feelings, their eyes always gave them away. He supposed they had true, honest souls. Not like him, not like the rest of the worlds. They were _good_ , they didn't deserve what they'd been given. The world, including himself, had thrown so much shit their way and still...

"You're a good man." There was a small tremble in the boy's voice, and Theon felt tears prick at the back of his eyes.

Still, they found it within them to forgive.

The Night King slowly stalked forward, countless other White Walkers behind him. He could feel his fingers go numb from the cold, but he didn't let his grip fall.

_Sansa...I won't see you again. Not in the after, you'll be with your family then. I don't think I'd deserve that much,_ he thought as he readied himself.

The cold was biting, and he knew he had to protect Bran. Death wasn't a strong enough deterrent. 

_Yara, I'm sorry I was a shit. You were always a good sister, even when I didn't deserve it_ , he thought as he ran forward, a scream pushing out of his lungs.

The Night King simply grabbed the spear and jerked it from his hands, snapping it in half. It froze over immediately, ice coating the wood and Dragonglass. He nearly fell forward for a moment but the White Walker reached out a hand, gripping his shoulder. He could feel the cold burning his skin even beneath his armor. He screamed and made a desperate grab for the remains of the spear, but it was too late. He felt it cut through him easily, and he tasted blood as he fell.

He rolled, watching it approach Bran, and tried to stand again. Blackness edged at his vision, he stopped breathing with the taste of iron on his tongue. That's what he was, after all. Ironborn. The blood coating his mouth was his destiny. The cold claimed him, and he closed his eyes even as he heard a faint scream, one that sounded far too familiar. He felt weightless for a moment, then like he was drowning. Water was filling his nose and mouth, his lungs and throat, and he opened his eyes to a stone ceiling. 

He sat up with a gasp, but he felt no real air enter his lungs. He was in the crypts, surrounded by the statues of dead Starks. Was this his punishment, some kind of torturous limbo? No, he knew immediately this was no limbo when he saw the red hair pooled around the body laying limp on the ground. This was either heaven or hell, depending on if her eyes opened once more. He struggled to stand, feeling the pain of a spear but no injury to be found, and collapsed at her side. He gathered her head in his hands and felt no pulse, no breath left within her.

Hell it was, then.

He felt like weeping, but no tears could be formed. He expected to feel his heart aching in his chest, but there was no pain. Her eyes flew open, and she choked as she tried to suck air in. Her eyes were wide and Tully blue. His entire body sagged and he saw her confusion when she looked up at him.

"Theon...are you dead?"

He froze, "Yes. You are too, then?"

She swallowed, lips trembling, and nodded, "Bran...is he-? Jon, Arya, are they-?"

She cut herself off as if it were too horrible to mention.

"I don't know." He confessed, dropping his eyes from hers, ashamed, "The Night King...I tried to stop him. I did."

"I know." Her voice was soft, and a hand gently lifted his chin so he would look at her once more, "I know you did, Theon."

"I...I don't know what happened after. I heard more screaming but-"

"They're dead." A voice echoed within the crypts and they both bolted up, Theon helping Sansa stand even as he leaned forward and tried to push her behind him.

A boy walked forward, the watery slap of his bare feet loud in the empty Stark halls. He wore poorly fitted clothes, every inch of him from head to toe dripping wet. Dark hair was plastered to his forehead, making it nearly impossible to see his eyes. Theon saw them though, two black coles staring back at him. His skin was pale white, lips chapped and turning grey.

"Who are you? Who's dead?" Sansa stepped out from behind Theon, giving the figure a critical look.

"Everyone is dead." He said simply, voice too old for such a young body, and stared Theon in the eyes, "You know who I am."

He felt a rush over his head as he stared at the boy...no, not a boy. 

"He Who Dwells Beneath the Waves...but, we're...there's no ocean near Winterfell." Theon stuttered, dropping to a knee.

Sansa remained standing, head held high.

"No, but there are Ironborn." The boy tilted his head, face stoic, "You are here, are you not? As long as one of my own is on the mainland, I hold dominion."

Theon closed his eyes, clenched them shut, "You help no cowards, and I'm no brave man."

"Yes, you are." He opened them as his gaze snapped to Sansa, who had her jaw set as her blue eyes blazed, "You are brave. You protected Bran. You helped me escape when I needed you most. You were willing to give yourself to the hounds if it meant I could get away."

Her eyes looked upon the Drowned God, "Theon Greyjoy is the bravest man I've ever known."

Those dark eyes stared back impassively, "I already know that, girl."

He walked a circle around them, surveying them, before he stopped in front of Theon, "If I said I would summons your soul to my halls, the halls in which your father and his father before him reside, would you accept?"

Theon had no heartbeat, but it would be hammering if he did. He glanced at Sansa, still staring down his deity with the recklessness and bravery of a she-wolf, and shook his head, "I would...go where she does."

It was hard to tell if the boy approved or disapproved as his face was totally blank. Sansa finally looked at him, grasping his hand with a vulnerability he hadn't seen since he helped her escape, since he returned to Winterfell and asked to fight for her. 

"This is beyond you. Beyond any of you." The Drowned God tilted his head to the side, "The Elder Gods have been watching you, girl, for some time. They have made their decision, and I have made mine."

"The Elder Gods-? You mean the Old Gods?" Sansa's brow crinkled, "But...how-?"

"You don't truly think there is only one set of deities for the entire world, do you?" The God almost sounded mocking, " A northerner of the winter, an ironborn of the sea. A child of the Elder Gods and a child from my own halls. Who better to be set upon this task? You're being returned to the beginning, before the Others crossed the ancient barrier. They are Cold Gods, a sick abomination. They would see the sea frozen and my islands decimated. They would see the Elder Gods burned. The New Gods may have forgotten, but we ancient ones have not. They would see the world destroyed in endless winter."

"And you want us to stop them? By sending us back to our childhood?" Sansa swallowed thickly, "How would...how-?"

"Create an army fit to fight the dead. Destroy the Night King." The boy gave a careless shrug, "You will wake in the beds of your youth, the morning fate was changed for the worse. Don't make the same mistakes."

The brazen orders of a God who had everything to lose. Theon realized with dread that Gods were never kind, never merciful, not truly. If man were made in their image, no matter what religion or what deity, they were going to be just as self-serving as their creations.

The drowned boy looked at him and smiled, a cold and smug thing that gave him chills, "You should be happy. I am granting your wish, servant. You will go where she goes."

He was gone, sucked into the shadows the next time they blinked, and the tunnel that led deeper into the crypts lit up with a harsh light. 

Sansa looked at him, eyes wide, "That all really happened?"

Theon could only nod.

A spark of hope lit up her eyes, "We can save them. All of them."

She grabbed his hand, holding it in an almost bruising grip as a fragile smile curled her lips, "Are you ready?"

"No." He said, but followed her anyway. 


End file.
